We get a lot of hellhound and black demon dog stories sent into the Grievous Angel however this one – The Cur of County Road Six – takes the trope in a direction we hadn’t seen before. Our author – Anna Zumbro – lives in Washington DC. She writes short speculative and literary fiction. Her stories have appeared in Fantasy Scroll, Plasma Frequency, freeze frame fiction, and other publications.

The Cur of County Road Sixby Anna Zumbro

In the country nobody ties up their dog. Lots of the dogs don’t belong to nobody, neither. So when you and your kid brother are walking to school ‘cause you missed the bus again and your dad thinks freezing your bums off will teach you responsibility, well, you gotta watch out.

Most strays are simple. They might look scary with their ribs near breaking through their skin, but they got the fight-or-flight instinct of any other creature. So when some mutt starts growling, you don’t panic. You just whip out the sides of your coat real quick and start barking, and tell Billy to do the same. His bark’s all yappy like a chihuahua, but it don’t matter none. The strays turn tail every time. Except one.

Uncle Ray said the Cur was the Devil’s own pet, kicked outta Hell when he couldn’t be trained. “Still loves his old master, though. Fetches him souls whenever he can. Hopes to win himself back, poor beast.” Dad laughed and asked Ray if he wasn’t talking about himself, fixing his ex-girlfriend’s car for free. You laughed too. It never crossed your mind that the Cur might be anything more than a story.

Now, though, faced with the first dog that don’t back down at your coat-cape, you’re not so sure. You try to bark at this one, but the sound catches in your throat, like the dog’s keeping it there with those burning green eyes. His dark gray fur makes you think of ashes. He even smells like smoke.

Billy just keeps on yapping until the dog barks back. One bark, deep and rough, and it’s all your brother needs. He lights off running, kicking up gravel behind him. The dog gives chase, but he’s aiming for the closer meat. You.

It takes everything you got to to catch up to Billy, and by the time you do, you can feel the beast’s hot breath slicing through your jacket. Your sides throb. You can’t go on, but the Cur don’t slow none. Then your leg juts out to the side, catching Billy’s shin, and down he goes.

He howls. It’s a weak sound like his puppy barks, one that don’t reach the neighbors. But it’s awful, that scream. Not the noise, but the way it stops. Sudden. And you know. The silence cuts you sharp as teeth.

When you finally look, the Cur is gone. Only Billy remains, lying still, his neck all torn and crimson and his eyes open to the clouds.

Everyone says it wasn’t your fault. Sometimes you can almost make yourself believe your leg kicked out by accident. But you know what you done, and you know where you’re going. They don’t call the Cur a hellhound for nothing.

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